“As leaders, we interpret and respond to situations as if scenes from our family history.”

--Dr. Marjorie Blum

There is nothing about our lives that our family experiences do not impact, both genetically and psychologically. From the way we were raised to argue and give praise, to the multi-generational stories we grow up telling--or not telling. We see this play out weekly on Finding Your Roots where Dr. Henry Louis Gates, Jr. helps write a chapter in each guest’s book of “Who am I?”

Inspired by the work of Dr. Blum and Dr. Gates, I headed out on a roadtrip, with Flo in tow, to live some family history in South Alabama.

The narrow county back roads are largely well-maintained, but the shoulders are dangerously deep from years of layering asphalt over asphalt. The lanes are super straight through loamy land until they’re not. Random right-angle curves, punctuated by an abandoned general store, appear like a mirage. The lonely passages are hooded by the greenest green oaks and poplars--almost a lime green at the cusp of summer. The churches seem to be placed accidentally on purpose in a zigzag pattern bouncing from the left side of the road to the right side. You comment, “There are more churches around here than people.” 

Tiny graveyards seem as frequent as cattle sprinkled off the sides of the road. While the headstones are weathered, the fresh flowers indicate recent respect.

We aren’t completely sure where we’re going. We know the town is called Sprott, AL. We know we’re looking for a church on a hill with a graveyard. We think the church is called Mount Something. We see this area is pretty flat, so if we investigate the few hilly parts, we’re likely to find our gravesite. 

The side roads off the main county strip are named after people. Not the usual Roosevelt Road or Smithfield Street, but literally named after the people who live at the end of that very road.  Don L. Thompson Drive.  R.F. Huntington Road.  

We see a sign for a church. It isn’t called Mount Something, but we see a hill. Maybe the church has changed names over the years. We take the gravely, humpy road that seems to go on forever, narrowly, through gorgeous woods. A few modular homes are scattered about with half-finished porches caught in media res. One person is spotted in a “yard.” We wave, as one does around here. We get a cautious wave back. I’m no mind-reader, but I know he thought “I don’t recognize that car or those women. Was that a Georgia tag?! I’m gonna go phone up ahead.” We get to the top. Doesn’t seem to be the right church. The graveyard seems too far away from the building. We’d remembered the graves were right by the church.

Luckily it’s Sunday, and service is letting out. Five people exit the church toward the only two cars out front. “How does this church stay open?!” you marvel. We pull up, roll down the window, careful not to startle. “Excuse me, is there a church around here called Mount Something?”

Sure enough, Mount Pleasant Baptist Church is “just over yonda ways.” We are so close. We head back to the main county road to take the next narrow lane, slightly more East, back up the mountain. I’m driving faster than I should. I’m surprised how excited I am for this adventure.

We walk through the chain link gate like entering a ball field. We’re more waddling, a little stiff from so much sitting on the long drive. The Taylor family plots are immediately off to the right. There are so many of them, lined up like a family photo from biggest to smallest.

From left to right, the concrete roll call starts with the humble laborers, Hosea and Amanda (my great grandparents), followed by 6 of their 12 children. The children cascade from 15-years-old down to infant. Two of the children are buried together after drowning in the river. One’s dress caught fire. One had a tumor. We aren’t sure of the gruesome reason the two others died so young. Another six children survived to adulthood and went on to raise their own families.  One was my grandfather. He left school in the 8th grade to work on the railroad and help support the family, retiring after 50 years of service. He had 8 children of his own, losing the eldest at 12 months old. Mom is #7 and the only surviving girl. Much of the rail he laid has now been ripped up or abandoned, invisible under kudzu.

Genetically and psychologically, this is part of who I am and how I show up as a leader. Who are you?